


The Continental Quartet

by phqyd_roar



Series: Things John Couldn't Possibly Write In His Blog [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chastity Device, Dialogue Heavy, Dom Sherlock, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Gags, Lighthearted Fun (Heh), M/M, Rape Fantasy, Really not as hardcore as the tags make out, Romance, Sub John, Very Filmsy Plot, funny?, healthy BDSM
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 23:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10818591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phqyd_roar/pseuds/phqyd_roar
Summary: Four porny outtakes of Sherlock and John's time hunting down the remnants of Moriarty's organisation.Sherlock struggles to find a way to express his feelings for John in Copenhagen;John tells Sherlock about his favourite wank fantasy in Munich;The two take a break from their secret service work in romantic Florence;They are captured to the last stronghold of Moriarty's network in Slovenia.





	1. Copenhagen Muses

**Author's Note:**

> All through writing "Things John Couldn't Possibly Write About In His Blog", I was trying to keep track of what Sherlock thinks. We're in John's head there, so there's unavoidable narrative bias. Sherlock has quite different opinions. But his head is a much harder place to be! I've tried to write a Sherlock inner monologue that was both in character and in love with John, but damn, it's hard. John is much easier to understand.
> 
> Anyway. Onto the porn.

_John, the look in your eyes —_

No, really? For God’s sake. The English language is ill suited for proclamations of sentiment. This entire nation is like John, dry and stoic and more prone to banter than love songs. 

_John, the trust you have in me is —_

Frightening. Astonishing. Inexplicable.

How do I explain this? It is eating away at me that John believes my regard for him to be less than that he has for me. What on earth am I to say to embody the oceans and mountains in my mind?

Look at him now. John is very close to crying. He is naked, gagged, eyes wet and fixed upon me. He is holding his legs open, hips canted up, his anus wet and gaping open slightly, his cock lying trapped on his abdomen in a plastic chastity device. I have been hitting him with my riding crop as I fuck him, bringing dashes of crimson to the surface of his skin, decorating his chest and his thighs in an intriguing pattern.

We have been conducting this experiment together, pushing the boundaries of his submission. He has been wearing that device for three days, along with an anal plug, not to be removed but for necessity. This has made him quieter, more self-aware, the softness that hides beneath his stoic facade closer to the surface. 

I had been answering emails when he came to my side just to look at me. He looked soft and sulky and abused, tormented by stimulation which he could have no release from, but he does not come to plead or complain. I certainly would, I would tear my hair out to be subject to this, but John takes it gracefully. I snap my fingers and he sinks to his knees, still looking up at me like that. There is something he is asking for, but it is not relief. I frown a little, think harder. I recognise that look. He is asking me to take.

When I fuck him like this, it is impossible for him to reach sexual release. On some level, I am entirely taking my pleasure from him. It is very altruistic of him, to look at me with eyes that beg me to use him, painfully and violently, until only I am satisfied. In such moments I am reminded of my uninhibited freefall from the rooftop at Bart’s. 

I am not equipped for this; I am constantly terrified that I do not deserve the depth of submission he so freely offers me. When I was young my teachers would not trust even a stick insect to my care. Yet John strips himself bare in front of me, body and mind. He sheds the clothes that makes him appear so ordinary, strips away skin and tissue to show me his fragile, vulnerable core. 

I could hurt him like this. With every thrust, every strike, I scrape at the tender tissue of his pounding heart, yet he trusts me not to tear it apart. I am raw with wonder.

John is whimpering, desperate mewling little sounds that grow a little more frenzied every time I rub firmly against his prostate. Translucent liquid leaks from the plastic cage, pooling on his belly. All other times John is so masculine, stereotypically so, he barely winced any of the times I have seen him injured and bleeding. Yet when we do this, it takes very little to bring him to tears. I adore it. This is all mine, only mine.

How could he think that when he offers me this, I remain unmoved? Could anyone partake in such an intimate exchange and remain selfish and aloof? I am not quite such a sociopath. He may be the one on the verge of tears but I am equally undone, scrambling to catch hold with unworthy fingers the shards of his innermost self. 

“John,” I say, because once again my efforts to find better expression of my thoughts have been unsuccessful. “John, John.”

I throw aside the riding crop, lean down to clench both hands in his hair, pump faster and faster. He wraps his legs around my waist and his arms round my neck, whining unintelligibly through the obstruction in his mouth. 

My John is extraordinary, perfect. I too should kneel to worship him, but he prefers I do so like this, and I can refuse him nothing.

What I cannot say, I try to say through this. After an intense orgasm, I clean the two of us up, remove the gag, gather John in my arms and press kisses to his skin wherever I can reach. He is still looking at me with the sort of light, dancing vulnerability generally compared to small woodland creatures. 

I must say something.

“I —”

“Hm?” He nuzzles closer.

“I don’t deserve this,” I blurt out. Damn it! That sounds entirely wrong.

I roll onto my back, dictate to the ceiling, “We should move on to Stockholm within the week. I was thinking we should take the ferry for a change, should be pleasant, unless you’d prefer the train?”

“No, what-”

“These Scandinavian countries have been amusing. You look extra small among the descendants of Vikings. You’re adorable. But entirely formidable, of course, your form in taking out five Nordic thugs is excellent and I shall keep that image in a display case in my mind palace.”

“I…huh?”

“Have I ever told you that I find your facial expressions while killing people quite arousing? I’ve yet to analyse why. But I do enjoy quite a number of your expressions, you have such a variety. The look you get when you take a sip of tea that is not up to your standards, for instance, you do manage to express a great deal of disappointment with very little movement. I feel obliged to threaten Mycroft to send us a box of tea bags so you won’t look like that. He could send my violin too, I am dying to play, but perhaps it would draw too much attention to us, yet I should compose, yes! What I fail to say with words perhaps music would suffice! I must have you know— the way you look at me — trusting—urgh!”

I bounce up into a seated position, incensed. John is looking vaguely delighted, which is not entirely the reaction I am trying to incite.

“I do love you. Very much.” My voice comes out terribly sulky.

John nods. It is a satisfying nod. On a whim, I decide to punctuate my statement by biting his arse. It is a savoury mouthful.

“That’s a good idea you had. With the violin. And the teabags. And the…ferry?”

“All my ideas are excellent,” I inform him.

“One of the many reasons I love you,” he says, deadpan.

Sigh. John is still not sufficiently convinced. I dive for my phone, and begin composing an ill-mannered text to my overweight brother.


	2. Munich Fantasies

“Okay. So it’s late at night.”

“Obviously, yes, it is imperative that all devious sexual acts occur during the late hours.”

“Absolutely. I’m down at the pub, I’ve had a few. Maybe more than a few. I say goodbye to my mates-”

“What _mates_? Since when do you have mates?”

“I had one rule and that was for you to _shut up_ while I’m telling it.”

Sherlock gives a conceding hum.

“Right, so then I leave the pub, I’m swaying a bit on my feet. Cabs won’t pick me up because I’ve basically got a neon light over my head saying “high risk of vomit.” So I walk home. I take a shortcut through this back alley because I always do.”

“Really, alley sex? How terribly cliche.”

“Shut up, you dolt.”

“I could deduce the rest of this story.”

“Oh yeah? Go on then.”

“You encounter a large and intimidating man. Drunken scuffling ensues. You are taken advantage of. The end.”

“I encounter _two_ men, actually.”

“Very naughty of you.”

“Heh. Well, I should have mentioned, this is me in med school, say twenty-four, twenty-five. I was fittest back then.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Whatever. So these two men, who’re both over six foot, buff mobster types, are hanging about in this alley doing something shady. In my drunken bravado, I go, ‘Oi!’”

“Oi? That’s your dialogue?”

“Oh, ff— Where’d you put the ball gag? I’m putting it on you.”

“I wouldn’t mind. But fine. Continue.”

“They jump, they’re startled. They’re absolutely doing something illegal. But then they realise I’m just a drunk little kid, and they share a look and crowd me against the wall. At first they just threaten me, tell me to mind my own business, push me around a little bit. I swear at them, try to get past, one of them slaps me round the head. Then the other one sees that I’m getting hard in my trousers. Then the mood changes a little bit.

They start feeling me up, calling me names. They pin my hands against the wall, get my trousers down, slap my dick, jeering. I struggle pretty hard, so they start tearing all my clothes off, beating me up. I’m naked on the dirty alley ground, and they’re kicking me around until I’m sobbing and begging them to stop.” 

“What next?” Sherlock isn’t making witty quips anymore. He’s getting hard. His voice is taking on that low rumbling quality it gets when he’s turned on.

“Well, I’m pretty much cowed. So they start making me suck their cocks. I’m shaking, partly from cold, partly from fear, sobbing around this guy’s fat cock while the other one pushes his cock into my hand. But that’s not enough for him. He grabs my hips and pulls me up, spits in his hand, stuffs a finger up my arse, badly lubricated. It, um. It hurts. I struggle really hard, but the other guy, he’s got his cock jammed down my throat. They pin my arms behind my back. Then I get fucked, mostly dry, trapped between the two of them.”

I stop talking. Sherlock’s cock is poking me in the bum, and he’s rubbing circles absent-mindedly over my crotch. We’re both breathing rather heavily.

“Is that it?”

“That’s where I generally come. But I suppose they fuck me as they please, they leave me all debauched in the alley and make a run for it. And then it’s one of those cases that you find too boring to leave the house for- barely even a 3, you’d say.”

“I think not. You would hardly be raped by any lowly thug, those men would likely be involved in drug smuggling and a human trafficking ring which I would then solve by asking you details about your…unfortunate time with them.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Merely an observation of your propensity towards trouble. Do you really desire sex with multiple partners?”

“Nah. Not in real life. Not unless you can come up with another you.”

“Yes, I would certainly perfect human cloning to satisfy your sexual fantasies.”

“It would be a baby, though, wouldn’t it? Then we’d have to raise it for eighteen years, and it would be incest-y and very dubious morally.”

“Good point. Robotics, then?”

“Why, again, are we talking about this?”

“To distract ourselves from the fact that we are, in fact, on a stake out, and if I give in to the desire to have public sex with you, we run the risk of being killed by the men we’re trying to hunt.”

“God fucking damn it.”

“Tell me another one.”

“Seriously? Are you a bloody masochist too?”

“That’s an order, Captain.”

“Ow! Fine. This one is in Afghanistan…”

“Army exploits of the infamous Three-Continents Watson.”

“I am _never_ telling you things ever-Fuck! Sherlock. That’s him. Moran.”

“Excellent. Let’s go.”


End file.
